


And a Partridge in a Pear Tree

by untilourapathy (gwendolen_lotte)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 17:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13322757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwendolen_lotte/pseuds/untilourapathy
Summary: Kesha Goysely pops to Harrods with her second favourite uncle for some foie gras.





	And a Partridge in a Pear Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zeitgeistic (faire_weather)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faire_weather/gifts).



> written for the tumblr prompt: I would like to prompt Roarmac having dinner at Drarry's house and being pissed off at Draco cattily serving foie-gras, and Harry not even knowing what it is at first
> 
> Zeit, I'm sorry that this hasn't turned out to fit the prompt exactly! I hope you like it anyway :)
> 
> unbetaed and written in a rush, so I apologise for my mistakes xx

Draco was narked off and made sure Harry knew it. When the little Kesha Goysley had asked to stay with her favourite uncle Draco that weekend, Draco’d been more than happy to oblige, even bothering to decorate their spare room in her favourite shade of Ravenclaw blue for her. This was until his work colleague, that infuriating, maddening, exasperating wanker McLaggen, had insisted on meeting Draco to discuss the trade ramifications of their latest contract. On a bloody Saturday, as well. When Draco insisted he was unavailable, looking after their niece for the weekend, McLaggen decided to come over to ostensibly ‘check’ that Draco was indeed busy. And sponge off them for lunch, apparently, as unsatisfied with Kesha as living proof of Draco’s occupied state, he had plopped down in the dining room to munch on Kesha’s mid-morning snack and didn’t quite look ready to move anytime soon. 

‘The sheer _gall_ of that man,’ Draco had whispered that very morning. ‘Unbelievable cheek. I know _exactly_ who he’d get along with, you know? I’m off to ignore him for roughly forty to sixty minutes, so do keep him busy, won’t you dear?’

Thus Harry sat, salad fork in hand, fortifying himself to have a business lunch on his fucking Saturday with his husband’s most annoying colleague by far. Draco was fussing about in the kitchen, probably whisking out dead cat entrails and thorny vegs to make some sort of dish resembling the edible as a, ah, _present_ to McLaggen. Their treat, really, honestly, their treat. So when Draco asked Harry if he could go fetch some foie gras, oh so nicely, he should’ve been more suspicious. Definitely more suspicious. Fuck Hermione and Ron telling him he’d always been overly stalkerish, there was a reason to be so. 

Foie gras, he panicked. What in the name of Merlin was that? French, his brain scrambled for, soft, pink? Brown? Maybe he could just ask the shopkeeper. He was a fully-grown adult, he couldn’t just go running to Hermione for these things anymore. Draco’d never let him hear the end of it. Besides, Hermione was probably off with Parkinson, doing… things. Cultural things, Harry was sure, like the Uffizi or whatever Draco mentioned three nights ago. Or was it four? Not sexual things, he was certain. Ab-so-bloody-certain. Yes, he was a fully-grown adult, he could do this himself –

‘Uncle Draco, may I go with Uncle Harry?’ Kesha had wandered into the dining room, bored of her 3D puzzle and had watched the proceedings with some earnest.

‘Yes, of course Kesha, he does seem a little lost, doesn’t he?’ It was Draco’s fond smile, thank Merlin, but also Draco’s teasing smile. Not yet edging on mocking, but getting there. Harry grinned back. He was married to the git, if he couldn’t smile at him when he wanted, what could a man do?

‘No no,’ Kesha reassured Draco, ‘not because Uncle Harry doesn’t know what to do, _obviously_ , but for… bonding time. Yes, bonding time. We do so love to bond, don’t we Uncle Harry?’

Fuck Ravenclaw, he thought, this girl was an all-out Slyth. Not quite as secretive as she hoped, but snakey nonetheless. He’s to have a handful, he knew that much. What with Draco, and Teds all hormonal, and secret snake Kesh, and any kids of their – 

So he gave Draco a weak smile, watching as Draco started chopping some mystery veg with barely concealed anger and frustration vigour, and kissed his shoulder goodbye. He took their niece’s hand as they mosied out the door, popping her bobble hat firmly on her little head. 

‘Right,’ Harry whispered, with some urgency as he squatted down on his doorstep, ‘Kesha, where do we go for this foie gras?’

‘We’re conspriters, Uncle Harry!’

‘Co-conspirators, and yes sweetheart, that we are. On our doorstep, with the whole world ahead of us. On a mission for this foie gras. Right, so first step in this mission then – where to for this mysterious foie gras?’

‘Partridges, obviously. Uncle Draco always talks about it as the best of the Muggle shops.’

Harry dearly hoped he didn’t look as clueless as he felt. ‘Right then, so where’s that?’ 

‘Um. Hmm. The square,’ Kesha said, ‘No, there are two? And between them. I think.’

‘Do you,’ Harry asked, patience thinning ever so slightly, ‘know what the name of this square is?’

Kesha shook her head. Harry fiddled with the hem of his jumper, wondering what to do next. He cursed under his breath, realising he had forgotten a coat for the both of them. He was such a bad uncle, she was going to freeze, she must’ve heard him swear, he should never be a parent – 

‘I’m going to list squares in London, sweetheart, and you’ll tell me if one of them rings a bell, yes?’

Kesha nodded. This doorstep was rather cold, Harry realised, casting a Warming Charm or two. 

‘Alright, then. Ready? Leicester Square, Grosvenor Square, Trafalgar Square, Russell Square, Sloane Square, Duke of York Square –’

‘Yes, Uncle Harry, that’s right, that’s right! The last twos. Partridges is there. Sandwiched like this,’ indicating with her hands what approximated some sort of sandwich. Maybe. If you were generous. 

‘Is there an Apparition point nearby?’ Fuck, Sloane was always packed with toffs and tourists, and there was no point on the whole of the King’s Road, he knew that much, and –  
‘Uncle Harry,’ Kesha said determinedly, tugging on his sleeve.

He shook himself out of run-on-sentencing. ‘Yes, sweetheart?’

‘Let’s just go to Harrods.’

Forty miserable minutes later, Harry found himself in the Food Hall, surrounded by mountainous shelves of food and food and food and more food and –

‘It’s alright, Uncle Harry. It’s all going to be ok.’

Shit, he was a right mess, and Kesha was going to make him cry, and he was the worst figure of responsibility ever to grace this sorry earth, and shit, shit, why was all the food the same-looking but so different, and –

He panicked as he saw Kesha wander off. Fuck. He tried to keep his eye on her, clad in a pink cagoule and bobble hat, but he couldn’t lose her! Not here on the Brompton, and there were too many people, and oh, there she was. He expelled what felt like days’ worth of air from his lungs, sagging by the fancy teas in relief. 

‘Hello, Mr Man. Excuse me, do you know where the foie gras is?’

Twenty long minutes later, after being led round and round and round, Harry was faced with the most impossible of tasks. Pâté, parfait or mousse? Artisan foie gras? Or the own-brand Harrods packaging, which did look fancier? Was anyone even going to see the damn package? Were they to display it or summat? What was this foie gras even for? He hoped not for eating, seeing all this liver made him want to go veggie. His legs were beginning to chill from where they were propped against the freezer, but there was no discrete way to send a little Warming Charm. Goose or duck? Duck or goose? Was there even any fucking difference?

‘It’s ok, Uncle Harry. Don’t stress yourself out. Whenever I’m in doubt, I just try to think of what Uncle Draco would do.’

Oh no oh no oh no. He had had a good time in this world, Harry had, but this was the sign of the end-times, he was sure. He loved his husband, he really did, but Draco as the embodiment of the pragmatic spirit? He wasn’t too sure about that, he had to confess. 

Kesha continued, oblivious to his ah, _mild_ panicking. ‘He’d buy _all_ of them, of course. Silly Uncle Harry, what else is there to do?’

He blinked, nonplussed. Of course, such an obvious and elegant solution. He was sure Draco would just give whatever they weren’t going to nibble on to Hermione and Parkinson, or to his colleagues in a passive-aggressive hamper basket. Perfect. Yes, the ideal solution. He patted Kesha on the back, resolving to slip her the Rocky Road hot chocolate from Whittard’s that Draco saw as too sugary, as opposed to that gourmet Italian stuff that Draco bought, where you melted the chocolate spoon into the milk ever so… slowly.

Of course, the ideal solution looked a lot less ideal upon seeing the bill. 

‘Hahaha,’ came this strange noise that his body seemed to emit, ‘haha.’ Right then, he had to commit. To this farce of a food shop, he did. He had to commit. Committing, right. What would Draco do? Fuck, now Kesha had _him_ doing it. 

‘Uncle Harry, what about the bread?’

Fuck. 

It was a good deal past the ‘ideal time to luncheon’ by the time Kesha and Harry, a little sticky and smelling like the four hundred different wafty perfumes in Harrods, trudged back into the house. 

‘Sorry Kesha,’ as they walked back to the kitchen, ‘I’m just not very smart.’

‘That’s not what Uncle Draco says. He’s very smart and he says you’re smart too, so of course you’re smart.’

Harry was surprised. He knew Draco didn’t think he was stupid, and he wasn’t incompetent, but he never thought of himself as smart, so for Draco to think that? He melted, just a little bit, and decided to forgive Draco for the horrors of Harrods. He’d put up with the indignities of live pets for Draco. He’d put up with anything, really. Hurrying to mask the smile on his face, he slammed the green bag onto the kitchen island. 

‘I hope you’re happy, Draco,’ he said, poking Draco in the back, ‘I suspect we’re insolvent, now.’

‘Fuck, don’t touch me,’ Draco said, swatting away Harry’s wandering hands, ‘I’ll burn myself on the aga otherwise.’

Harry burst out laughing, reaching out to hug him from behind. He kissed Draco’s fingers. ‘There there, all better now?’

Draco just rolled his eyes, turning round to look for Kesha. Draco was such a secret softie, Harry thought. He’d seen him smatter Kesha with kisses time and time again. He’d be such a good father – 

Harry paused as he heard two voices chatting. It couldn’t be. _Ron?_ he thought, screaming wildly (at least internally). 

‘Draco,’ he hissed, ‘you’ve invited Ron.’

‘Yes, dear husband of mine, Ronald is indeed present.’

‘Ron. My mate Ron. My best mate Ron, who has never stepped foot in here since the Disaster Year of 2004.’

‘Indeed. Turns out Ronald and Cormac have a little bit in common, hmm?’

Harry froze, unwilling to peek into the dining room. Horror dawned on Harry yet again. He was reminded exactly why he shouldn't have married a Slytherin in the first place. Shit.


End file.
